


First Meeting

by AlexiaBlackbriar13



Series: Man's Best Friend [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Oliver Queen Has PTSD, Oliver gets a service dog, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Service Dogs, Social Anxiety, season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 05:36:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7031152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexiaBlackbriar13/pseuds/AlexiaBlackbriar13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Descending the porch steps of his family’s mansion, planning on heading to set up his base of operations, Oliver Queen certainly did not expect to be stopped by his mother and have a bodyguard assigned to him.</p><p>He was even more shocked to discover that he had also been assigned a PTSD-specialised therapist.</p><p>A four-legged therapist with a tail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all :) For my lovely friend @imusuallyobsessed on Tumblr, here is an Arrow AU Series in which Oliver gets a service dog.
> 
> Before everybody reads and starts yelling at me in the comments: I partially know what I'm talking about, because I have experience with service dogs. My great uncle has a PTSD service dog, and how Hunter was trained was EXACTLY how his dog was trained, so PLEASE don't start shouting about inaccuracies.
> 
> I will also take small requests for this verse. It's kind of a verse I will only write in if I have time with all my other WIP fics going on, so prompt and request fills will be about 3000-5000 words long. But you could request anything, anybody meeting Hunter, any scenes in which you'd like to see how Oliver and Hunter interact, anything.
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

Oliver hurried down the porch steps of his family’s home, duffle bag in hand, plan set in his mind. He had waited too long to set up his base of operations in the Foundry; he needed to secure the area, set up his equipment and get his computer servers up and running so he was prepared for confronting Adam Hunt. Turning towards the garage where his Ducati was parked, he was halted by his mother calling his name.

Moira had hired him a bodyguard.

 _Him._ An actual _bodyguard._ It was a bit of an overreaction to the kidnapping of him and Tommy yesterday, he reckoned, but knowing his mother wasn’t going to give in, or be persuaded to give the idea up by Walter, who was shooting him an apologetic look, Oliver agreed with a grimace on his face. He glanced around his mother and caught sight of the man – big arms, was the first thing he noticed. The guy was tall, very stocky and muscled, with a stoic face. Yeah, the classic bodyguard. It wouldn’t be hard to ditch him, so he might as well test the guy out, see whether or not he was serious about his job.

“See you later,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to his mother’s cheek as he headed towards the black car that his bodyguard had obviously driven around.

“Oliver, wait,” Moira called to him, her grip on his wrist not faltering, and causing instincts born from the island to rear up and make the archer stiffen in anticipation of an assault. “There’s somebody else I want you to meet.” She seemed to take a moment to steel herself before announcing, “I got you a psychotherapist.”

If Oliver had been drinking anything, he would have done a spit-take. “What?”

Moira pulled him closer, grasping his hands and whispering, “Sweetheart, I’m not trying to hurt you or be rude, but you need mental help. Doctor Lamb told Walter and I to watch you for any signs of having difficulty readjusting to society and – well, after the other night –“

“Mom,” Oliver choked out, wide-eyed and aware that they had _company_.

“You need mental help, Oliver,” Moira continued firmly, her voice giving no room for negotiation. “Dr Lamb delivered the results of your psychiatric evaluation from when you first arrived back.” Right, she meant the results of the psychiatric evaluation that she had _forced_ him to do. “You’re suffering from post traumatic stress, and acute social anxiety, which is to be expected after you spent five years away from society on your own – and of course, we can’t ever expect to relate to that or understand what you went through, but _please,_ you need to accept some help.”

“Mom, I’m not insane,” the archer replied eventually, too shocked to really say anything else to protest. “I don’t need therapy. And if I can’t talk to my family about what happened to me, do you really expect me to talk to a stranger?”

“A stranger with a psychotherapy qualification,” Walter corrected. When Oliver shot him a glare, Walter avoided his gaze, but the man added, “Of course, that doesn’t apply here.”

“What do you mean?” Oliver questioned cautiously, glancing between his mother and step-father warily. He took a step back and swallowed when he saw the look on Moira’s face. “Mom, please, I need to know what’s going on here.”

“Oliver,” Moira told him, “You’ve been assigned a therapy assistance dog.”

A beat passed. Oliver stared at his mother in complete silence. He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. But before he could even force his mouth to form words or his body to react, Moira wrapped her hand around his elbow and guided him down the steps, Walter by her side and Oliver’s new bodyguard at their six, towards one of the side gardens of the estate.

There was a man sitting on one of the oak wood benches, a dog at his feet. He was feeding the canine treats whilst making him obey certain commands, and seeing their approach, the man got the dog to sit. Oliver still couldn’t get himself to say anything. His mother had hired him a _therapy assistance dog_. Firstly, he didn’t need the help and he certainly didn’t need it from a dog. And secondly, how was he meant to fight a crusade with a dog following him around? He definitely couldn’t jump across the Starling City rooftops, shooting arrows into the criminal one-percenters with a dog tagging at his heels.

“Good morning, Mrs Queen,” the man greeted his mother formally, reaching a hand out to shake Walter’s hand, “Mr Steele.”

“Mr Wicksaw, thank you so much for coming today,” Moira said gratuitously, smiling. “I don’t believe you’ve met my son, Oliver.”

That was probably a cue for Oliver to introduce himself and shake the man’s hand, but he didn’t, not moving. He was standing stiffly and staring at the dog with his throat closed, making it impossible for him to move or speak. The dog looked back up at him innocently, tongue lolling out. The archer couldn’t argue that he was a very handsome canine; he looked like a German Shepherd, but also closely resembled a husky, so maybe it was a cross. His fur pelt was a mixture of different shades of brown and tan, with a darker, blackish stripe down his spine and tail and framing his face. He looked more like a military dog than a therapy dog. Oliver just could not imagine this canine accompanying him everywhere.

“Oliver,” his mother hissed.

“It’s okay, Mrs Queen,” the man said. “I can imagine he’s still in shock. The idea of accepting a therapy assistance dog can be, um, difficult. I, uh, was actually wondering if I would be able to talk to Mr Queen alone.”

Moira looked at Oliver for a moment or two before nodding. She and Walter departed, but not before Moira brushed a kiss against Oliver’s forehead and Walter patted Oliver on the shoulder. The bodyguard retreated a few metres, but remained in the background – the archer still didn’t know his name, and couldn’t bring himself to care at that moment. He was still staring unflinchingly at the dog.

“Sorry about the formalities,” the man said. “Your mom’s kinda my employer and I, uh, really don’t want to get fired before being accepted for the job. Although it’s not really me that’s being employed, it’s Hunter.”

The guy was finally able to draw Oliver’s attention with his semi-awkward conversation starter – if that was even what it was. Oliver struggled to read social cues nowadays.

The archer forced himself to adopt his official Oliver Queen persona and straightened his back. “No, I’m sorry for my rudeness earlier,” he said politely, offering his hand. “Oliver Queen.”

The man looked down at his hand and gave a wry grin before meeting his eyes. “You don’t have to offer me your hand, I can tell you don’t actually want me to shake it. Messes up your threat processing, right?” He paused briefly, seemingly savouring Oliver’s expression of shock. The archer hadn’t expected the man to understand that, but he _was_ military, he guessed. Maybe the guy suffered from some kind of post traumatic stress too. “I’m Ben Wicksaw. Call me Ben. Is it okay if I call you Oliver?”

“Yeah.” Oliver hated the fact that his voice broke. Remembering what Ben had said before, he questioned, “Who’s Hunter?”

Ben leant down slightly to powerfully pat the dog’s side. “Hunter.”

“Right.” Oliver swallowed. “The dog.”

Ben sent a sympathetic look his way as he made a hand motion to order the dog to jump up and sit on the bench. “This whole idea of having a service dog has you wigged out real good, huh.”

“I don’t think I could actually legally own one anyway,” Oliver said in response, slightly defensive. “I don’t have any disabilities.”

“You don’t have any _physical_ disabilities,” Ben corrected, settling back to lean on the bench and clasp his hands together. “And whether you like it or not, Oliver, you do have mental ones.” When the archer averted his eyes with a scowl, Ben pushed on. “Have you read your medical evaluation from returning from the island?” Before Oliver could answer, he continued, “Because I haven’t, but just from what your mother and step-father have been telling me, I could deduce that you have severe PTSD and social anxiety. And if that’s what your official medical statement says, then you’re definitely a candidate for a service dog.”

Oliver looked the man seriously in the eyes and told him sharply, with some desperation in his voice, “Ben, I _don’t_ need a service dog.”

The man didn’t look surprised at his protest, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Your mom mentioned before that you’d probably oppose the idea. Well, you could look at it this way – Hunter’s your second bodyguard.”

Oliver wasn’t stupid. He knew that was Ben hinting that the dog, Hunter, had training. Narrowing his eyes at the dog, he observed him closely; he was a typical breed chosen by the military for war dogs, and he thought that beneath the thick wiry fur he could sections of tighter skin, indicating scars. Despite this knowledge, he played dumb, asking, “What do you mean?”

“Hunter’s ex-military,” Ben informed him, just as Oliver predicted. “I’m a Military Dog Handler for the Special Forces. I started training Hunter when he was six months old, still a puppy. He’s been trained in drugs and explosives detection, scouting and sentry work, tracking and fighting. About two years ago, he went out on his first mission in Iraq, and within his first five days out there, he saved my entire unit by sniffing out at IED and carrying it away from us.”

A new found respect for the dog prompting him, Oliver hesitantly reached his hand out for the wolf-like dog to smell. His ears erect, Hunter sniffed at his palm, nose twitching madly. “How come he’s become a therapy assistance dog?”

“The IED exploded barely a metre away from him after he buried it,” Ben said bluntly, running a gentle hand down Hunter’s spine. “He was severely injured by it. He retired from Special Forces honourably after a week of service.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t bear to send him back to the US alone. I took my army leave and returned here with him. As a retired military dog, Hunter could either go into law enforcement or be de-trained. I decided to train him as a therapy assistance dog.”

“I thought service dogs had to be trained from when they’re puppies, for their entire lives.”

Ben smiled. “Not service dogs that work more in PTSD therapy assistance. Their jobs are a lot more simple, so it’s easier and quicker to train them.”

The dog was now snuffling Oliver’s hand and the archer found that he was actually smiling at the sensation of Hunter’s rough tongue tickling his palm. He massaged the dog’s right ear with one hand and his grin grew as the dog’s head reared back in pleasure, panting with his tongue lolling out.

“He’s a German Shepherd-husky mix?”

Ben nodded. “Good eye.” Watching the archer with the dog, the man sighed, crossing his arms. “Look, Oliver, I’ll be honest with you. When your doctor and mother first approached me, asking to hire Hunter for you, I was reluctant to let him go. I’d read about you in the tabloids and no offence but… you were _not_ the kind of person I envisioned handing my dog off to. But I can see now that you’re not the guy from five years ago. That island changed you.” He managed a weak smile. “You need Hunter, Oliver. Whether you know it or not. Whether you want him or not. You need him.”

Oliver could only respond by nodding, still gently stroking the dog. Ben finally seemed appeased and reached his hand out for a proper handshake, which this time, the archer didn’t hesitate to take with purpose.

“If you take Hunter with you today, you can get to know him,” Ben offered. “Then tomorrow, if you agree to accept him as your service dog, we’ll get all the official paperwork and some authentication cards sorted, and I’ll teach you all the commands he obeys.”

Moira and Walter returned to briefly speak with Ben, whilst Oliver knelt down and allowed Hunter to sniff all over him, getting accustomed to his new master.

“Hi,” the archer murmured, as Hunter snuffled him gently before sitting back on his haunches and blinking stunningly blue eyes at him. “You’re a very handsome dog, aren’t you?” Hunter huffed happily, his whiskers twitching as his ears swivelled curiously. “Yeah, you are, and I bet you know it.” The dog arched his muzzle up to tickle Oliver’s chin. “You okay to hang with me today, buddy?”

Then, with Ben agreeing to return tomorrow evening to check on Oliver and Hunter’s progress, he departed, and Oliver clambered into the black town car with the dog at his heels. It was actually quite nice to have Hunter accompanying him, a comforting presence pressing onto his legs. The bodyguard climbed into the front seat and began driving them into town.

When Oliver jumped out of the moving vehicle to escape the newly introduced Diggle, Hunter bounded out behind him. The archer quickly realised that whilst he could easily ditch his new human bodyguard, it would be practically impossible to escape his canine one. Hunter sat, watching him, as Oliver began re-constructing/de-constructing the Foundry, dragging in metal tables and setting up lighting.

At one point, when replacing one of the double plug sockets with a four-fitting one, when the connections didn’t fit in, Oliver got frustrated and threw the screwdriver across the room.

Before he knew it, Hunter had padded up to him and dropped the screwdriver beside his knee, distracting him from sorting out the wiring. “What -?” The dog plonked down on his haunches in front of him. Oliver swallowed, trying to muster up some anger as he growled, “Go away.”

He tried to turn back to the sockets, but then a paw batted at his foot. Oliver closed his eyes briefly before turning to the dog. Cocking his head sideways, Hunter’s whiskers twitched.

“Hunter, go away,” he ordered slowly.

Doing the exact opposite, Hunter rested his head on the archer’s lap, blinking up at him. All at once, the frustration seemed to drain out of him. Oliver stroked the dog’s head with a sigh for about five minutes, the most relaxed he had felt since his return to civilisation, before he picked up the screwdriver and resumed his work.

“Don’t think this means we’re bonding,” he told the dog in a threatening voice, fighting the urge to turn to address him directly. “Because we’re not. _This_ -“ He waved at the space between the two of them, “ - is not bonding.”

Hunter huffed, as if replying sarcastically, _Yeah, sureeeee._

“You’re annoying,” Oliver muttered.

The dog didn’t make a sound and just sat there.

Oliver shifted uncomfortably, grumbling as he dug back into the wire work. “You know, you could at least _try_ and be more irritating. That would give me a proper reason to hate you. Why’d you have to be so cute and well-behaved?”

After everything was set up in the Foundry, Oliver slipped on his quiver and picked up his bow, planning to do some archery practise by shooting some tennis balls. He hesitated at first, worried that Hunter would run after the balls the moment the machine threw them, but to his surprise, the dog simply sat by his side calmly as he shot arrows into tennis ball after tennis ball.

“What, nobody ever thrown a tennis ball for you to play with before?” The archer picked a spare one up and lobbed it across the Foundry. Hunter didn’t so much as look after it. “Is it because you’re on duty? That’s why you won’t play?” Oliver walked over to the ball and picked it up, rolling it around in one hand. “What if I tell you you’re off duty?”

Immediately, Hunter perked up, jumping to his feet with his tail wagging. A grin splitting Oliver’s face, he threw the ball again and instantly the dog raced after it. As soon as Hunter brought it back, dropping it at his feet and backing up before doing some weird kind of excited dance, Oliver threw it again. They played fetch for about ten minutes before Oliver realised it was getting dark and he needed to get to work, so ordered Hunter back on duty.

The dog obeyed his command to stay in the Foundry. Telling him firmly to not follow him and stay in the base, Oliver made sure to lock all the doors securely behind him so the dog wouldn’t follow. After confronting Adam Hunt for the first time, with an overdramatic attack and warning, the archer returned to the Foundry with concern buzzing in his mind. What if the dog had destroyed the set-up? What if he had escaped and run off?

He didn’t know why he had doubted Hunter. The dog was waiting patiently for him to come back, laying on his side at the bottom of the stairs and calmly trotting towards Oliver. The human in the duo stood completely still as Hunter examined him, probably checking him for injuries and any distress. Oliver had to admit, he was impressed; the dog sensed that he was hyped up on adrenaline, guided him to sit down on the floor and took his bow from him, picking it up in his mouth and placing it down before clambering onto the archer’s stretched out legs so he could stroke him.

“Okay, so, you’re not that annoying,” Oliver admitted, scratching under the dog’s chin as he tipped his head back against the wall. “You didn’t destroy the Foundry, so I guess you could stay here when I hood up.” Hunter arched his head up with a huff so that the archer could reach a particular spot to scratch at his neck. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you? Good boy.”

Oliver ran home, wanting the work out. The twenty miles to his family’s estate took only two hours, and Hunter ran by his side the entire journey. By the time they reached the mansion, Oliver was sweating profusely and feeling pretty diminished of energy, but the dog showed no signs of tiredness.

“You should take him to your home-coming party,” Moira said, when Oliver jogged down the grand staircase after changing into a comfortable suit with the dog following him. “It could get… stressful.”

Oliver shook his head, coming to a halt and securing his suit blazer’s buttons, Hunter immediately sitting by his feet quietly. “I would, but I don’t think I’m ready yet to admit to the world I have a service dog, Mom,” he told her carefully. “And since technically he isn’t officially yet, he can’t come into the building with me.”

The party _was_ incredibly stressful. He hated the loud space with the massive crowd of strangers, and Tommy handing him random alcoholic drinks. He couldn’t do anything to help his little sister except pickpocket the drugs she had just bought and throw them in the trash, he fucked things up with Laurel – _again_ – and then he was forced to knock out Diggle to deal with Adam Hunt.

The confrontation with Adam Hunt was another level of stress entirely.

When Oliver finally returned home, close to midnight, he felt more mentally tired and worn out than he had in days. Upon opening the front doors however, greeted by silence and darkness, he was met by Hunter instantly appearing from the living room and bounding up to him. Without even sniffing or touching him, the dog seemed to realised how stressed and exhausted Oliver was, because he nudged at the back of Oliver’s legs to prompt to upstairs, even jumping up to turn his bedroom light switch on.

The dog waited by the beside for Oliver to climb in, not realising that his master would be rejecting the bed and actually sleeping on the floor, but after Oliver grabbed a pillow and dragged a blanket to the ground, Hunter seemed to realise, as he came up beside Oliver (after turning the lights off) and laid down beside him, pressing his furry back up against Oliver’s own to provide him with warm, comforting physical contact.

“This isn’t snuggling,” Oliver told him tiredly, closing his eyes and exhaling calmly. “And we’re not friends.”

Hunter huffed.

“Don’t huff at me,” Oliver replied, his voice muffled by his arm. “I don’t like you.” Nothing for a minute or two, and then the archer jumped in surprise when a cold black nose nudged under his shirt and poked his back, as if in protest. “Fine. You’re… okay. You’re… growing on me.”

For the first time since he had arrived back in Starling City, Oliver didn’t have difficulty drifting off to sleep.

 _Yes,_ the archer confirmed groggily as he closed his eyes and let his mind sink into restfulness. _The dog would stay._

* * *

“I want to keep him.”

Oliver, Moira, Walter and Ben were seated together in the Queen mansion living room, Ben having arrived just after dinner to check up on how Hunter and Oliver were getting along. When the archer sat down with Hunter at his heels and immediately announced that he wanted the dog to stay, Ben’s face broke out into a grin.

“You were right,” Oliver told him, hating to admit it and giving the man a small smile. “I need him. I didn’t ever think that I would, and I didn’t expect to, but I need him.”

“What made you change your mind?” Ben asked curiously.

“Last night, after the home-coming party, I was really stressed,” Oliver confessed, making sure not to meet his mother’s or step-father’s gaze and keep his eyes directed away from them, only looking between Hunter and Ben. “During the party, I was tense and exhausted and I just couldn’t cope with all the people and noise. Then, when I came home, Hunter calmed me down.” He fixed his eyes on a far wall as he admitted, “It just made me realise that Mom was right, and that I am struggling with coming back into society. And I think Hunter could really help me with that.”

Ben gave him a very genuine smile. “Then I think you and Hunter are going to become really great friends, Oliver.”

It took a while to get everything sorted. For about half an hour, Ben told Oliver everything he needed to know about his rights according to the 1990s Americans with Disabilities Act, informing him that although he didn’t have any physical disabilities, the PTSD and acute social anxiety he had still counted. He then began sorting out a valid service dog licence for Hunter according to the Starling City Human Rights Law, and a collar with accompanying tags. Emphasising how important it was to carry the dog licence around with him at all times, Ben then informed Oliver of the questions people were legally allowed to ask concerning him owning an assistance dog, and how he should answer them if they arose.

“You don’t have to say anything other than that,” Ben finished. “He may not be wearing a service vest or anything like that, but legally, people don’t have the right to demand any other answers. All you literally have to say if they ask is that Hunter is a psychiatric service dog, and show them your licence if you have to. And always refer to him as a service dog. Not a therapy dog, or an assistance dog. A _service_ dog.”

“I think I’ve got it, Ben,” Oliver replied, amused.

“Look, Oliver, I’m going to be frank with you,” Ben grimaced. “I wouldn’t be surprised if some social issues arise due to you owning Hunter. A lot of people are going to be questioning whether or not you’re actually legally allowed to own a service dog, because you don’t have any physical disabilities. Just always remember that you _do_ have the right, you have _proof_ that you have the right, and that they do not have the right to force you to divulge your personal medical information.” After a moment, he brightened considerably and suggested, “Hey, how about I teach you which commands he obeys now?”

It was nearing nine o’clock by the time Ben left. He said a massive goodbye to Hunter, hugging him and kissing his face and giving him treats before, with tears in his eyes, he ordered the dog that Oliver was now his master. Shaking Oliver’s hand firmly and then Walter’s and Moira’s, the man drove off down the drive, promising to be available by email or cell phone if they ever needed any advice.

Hunter dejectedly followed Oliver upstairs, realisation seeming to dawn on the dog that his old owner and trainer would not be coming back. Suddenly feeling awful, Oliver called Hunter over as he settled down on the floor to sleep and pulled the German Shepherd husky mix to his side.

“You’re fine,” he whispered, burying his head into the dog’s scruff and sighing. “We’re fine.”

When Oliver went downstairs with Hunter by his side, early at five, planning on eating a meagre breakfast and then heading to the Foundry to train, Walter was already down there, and told him that the Starling City Department of Health were sending an express courier with the dog licence and tags over to the mansion later that morning, so that Hunter could officially begin his work that day.

By ten o’clock, departing the mansion with the licence in his wallet and a shiny, impressive new tag attached to Hunter’s black collar, Oliver was the proud owner of an ex-military, psychiatric service dog.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave kudos and comment :)
> 
> Tumblr: @alexiablackbriar13  
> Twitter: @lexiblackbriar


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